Chương 201: Chapter 59: Prismatic Cabal

The King then spoke. His voice did not have the bombastic sonorously of public audiences, nor the calculated coldness of private offices. It had a grave, authentic solemnity that echoed in the bare stone like the blow of a hammer on a sacred anvil. It was almost like listening to the man for the first time. —Selena of Solendra —he began, each syllable measured— Conscious Resonant of both paths, the spoken and the written. I, Thaerón IV Volgthar, welcome you to the Prismatic Cabal.

The first and last organization of royal and arcane resonants, created by the most powerful imagined resonant known in history: Eliud Volgthar. I, with the weight of his successor and the authority of the Veiled Crown, name you Arcane Resonant. He paused, the silence so dense it could be cut. —Consequently, you are granted a resonant title. An arcane name. A seal on the soul that you will have the right to reveal only when you are an Expert Arcane Resonant, before those who can understand its weight.

Cassian stepped forward then. In his hands he carried an artifact that Selena had never seen. It was a monocle, but nothing in it obeyed normal logic. The glass was not transparent; it reflected and distorted light unevenly, as if capturing fragments of overlapping realities. The chain holding it changed color erratically, passing from silver to gold, to the color of old bronze, without any pattern. Thaerón took the artifact with reverence.

He placed it on his right eye, and with an immaculate white linen cloth, he meticulously cleaned the glass. Not once, but eight times. A ritual within the ritual. Then, through the impossible monocle, he looked at Selena. The monarch's voice rose now with unique and ominous solemnity. —You, Marchioness Isabella Elizabeth Selena of Solendra, shall be… In that instant, Selena felt it. It was a physical, overwhelming sensation. As if thousands, hundreds of thousands of eyes landed on her at the same time.

From all possible angles, from adjacent dimensions, from the past and the future. It was a total observation, stripping you naked, scrutinizing every layer of her being: the man from another world, the marchioness, the physician, the fighter, the resonant, the survivor. She felt exposed, dissected, understood in her most intimate and terrible entirety. She held her breath, her heart galloping against her ribs. The King's voice, when it sounded again, was not triumphant. It sounded… resigned. Tired.

As if he were dictating an inevitable sentence that not even, he enjoyed pronouncing. He inhaled deeply, and the sound filled the stone chamber. —… Selena the Void. The title fell into silence. The words seemed to be absorbed by the very quality they named. The Void. A name of her essence, of absence. Of the place where everything came from, and to which everything, eventually, returned. Selena felt it fit into her soul with the terrifying precision of a key in a hidden lock. It was not an appointment.

It was a diagnosis. For the first time since she had arrived in that world, she felt that someone or something had seen her, truly and completely. The King continued, his voice recovering the ritual tone but now with a practical shade, like a craftsman giving the final instructions for a delicate tool. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. —Your robe will be black, with intense green trimmings. —His gray eyes landed on Selena's— Like your eyes.

The color of what grows in the shadow. The color of the truth that persists under the bark. Cassian, with the precision of a veteran master of ceremony, stepped forward and delivered to the monarch a carefully folded robe. Thaerón took it and, with a gesture that was at once a delivery and an imposition, extended it toward Selena.

The fabric was heavier than it seemed, of a fine but dense linen, black like a moonless midnight, and the trimmings embroidered with a silk thread of a green so vivid and deep that it seemed to capture the very essence of a primeval forest. —Remember —warned the King, his gaze fixed on hers— you can only wear it on official missions of the Cabal, or if, one day, it is your turn to teach at the Royal University of Kaelburg under our aegis.

It is not a uniform; it is a second skin that declares your nature before those who have eyes to see. Then, as if moved by a single impulse, the nine hooded figures surrounding the circle lowered their head coverings. The penumbra no longer concealed their faces, revealing a gallery of humanity marked by power and secrecy. The King spoke again; his solemnity now loaded with a historical weight: —It is I, as Eliud was, the Dark Monarch. The axis. The colorless prism containing all.

One by one, they began to introduce themselves. Not with their titles, but with their color names, the identities that weighed more than any lineage. It was the ominous arcane world of the very essence of the void and those figures looked at it without fear. Cassian bowed his head slightly, his voice clear and without emotion, like a verse recited a thousand times: —Cassian the White. Valerian made a theatrical flourish with his hand, a smile of a satisfied predator on his lips: —Valerian the Red.

Isolde, with her face carved in eternal ice, declared with severity that cut the air: —Isolde the Violet. A woman of a snow paleness, with hair as white as her skin and eyes of a glacial blue, spoke in a whispering voice: —Alessandra the Pink. A small girl, with messy brown hair and eyes of the same honey color, said in an almost ethereal tone, her voice filling the room despite whispering: —Elowise the Sky Blue.

A man who looked like a mountain in human form, broad-shouldered, his face furrowed by a network of scars that told nameless wars growled with a voice that echoed like distant thunder: —Bravonir the Blue. A short man, of thick build and hands like maces, spoke with a rough and earthy voice: —Vaelathor the Terracotta. A blonde woman, with hairlike strands of silver and gold, light blue eyes so pale they were almost silvery, said with an icy calm: —Olyndra the Gray.

A man of dark complexion like polished ebony, with eyes that burned with the desert light, announced: —Zofriel the Orange. A woman of porcelain white skin, with a cascade of black hair gathered in a severe braid and metallic silver eyes that created a breathtaking contrast, spoke in a grave and resonant voice: —Lysareth the Beige. A very light, brown-skinned man, with impressive afro hair forming a crown around him, said in a voice that sparkled with contained energy: —Galdreic the Yellow.

The last to speak was a blonde man, tall and slender, with a shiny bald head and a carefully trimmed mustache that stood out on his angular face: —Thromaric the Brown. The King nodded, his gaze traversing the circle of colors. It had been an insertion into the core of arcane power, titles that spoke of a spectrum not only of colors, but of people and resonants as distinct as the prism that separated light.

The monarch spoke again, but this time his words came loaded with the epithets by which they were known in the whispers circulating on the margins of the realm, in the nightmares of their enemies and in the secret archives of rival nations.

—Known, in the places where our existence is whispered, as Cassian the Madness, Valerian the Red, Isolde the Deadly, Alessandra of Desire, Elowise the Etheric, Bravonir the Blue, Vaelathor of Iron, Olyndra the Frigid, Zofriel of the Desert, Lysareth the Earthly, Galdreic the Sparkling, Thromaric of Bronze. His gaze rested alternately on Valerian and on Bravonir, a silent evaluation.

—When the color name and the resonant title coincide —he explained, his tone didactic— they usually denote a mastery, an identification so complete with that aspect of the echo or its function, that their potential becomes… enormous. Almost axiomatic. Finally, his gray gaze fixed on Selena, who was still holding the green robe as if it were a newly shed skin. —Welcome to the Cabal, Selena the Void. Selena the Emerald.